We split open the center of the maple in the front yard, so we could pick her up and carry her away. In doing so, we found something unexpected.

The trunk of the tree was hollow, which we knew. But the entire hollowed out center – a space at least as tall as me but not as big around – was filled with honey comb.

We didn’t know.

The bees are still reeling from the crashing of the tree. They swarm around what’s left of her. If I didn’t know any better, I would say the swarm is moving with an attitude of agitated concern. But I must be anthropomorphizing.

We’re going to try to help them, carefully relocate them to a different home. I hope it works. I’m not terribly worried about getting stung.

When someone in the family dies, there’s an old tradition of sending someone to tell the bees what’s happened.

And I know that she wasn’t exactly family. She might have been something like a beekeeper. In this instance, it seems like a close enough thing. They ought to know.

I hope it’s a good night.